


Kill, Kill

by etacanis



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Zombies, Community: hh_sugarquill, Dystopia, Founders fic, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Zombies, alternate universe - muggles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-20
Updated: 2012-02-20
Packaged: 2017-10-31 11:13:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/343438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etacanis/pseuds/etacanis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the fucking zombie apocalypse, and somehow Salazar's ended up living in a bomb shelter with someone who values his porn collection more than his own life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kill, Kill

**Author's Note:**

> Corresponding fanmix can be found [here](http://etacanis.livejournal.com/193065.html)

**001**  
It’s the Apocalypse, Salazar thinks, watching out of his window as his next door neighbour eats a dog. The mother fucking zombie apocalypse.

He is suddenly very glad for the creepy old air-raid shelter in the back garden.

 **005**  
After five days of eating dry cheerios and Pot Noodles, Salazar decides to risk going to ASDA. He almost takes his wallet, but he decides that even _if_ someone still works there, he’ll just threaten to eat their brain or something.

He doesn’t know if these zombies do that, but he figures that it’s probably a legitimate reason to just let people take their shopping without question anyway.

He takes a cricket bat instead, and steals his currently zombified neighbour’s rottweiler. It’s got some blood around it’s muzzle, so his guess is that it’s pretty tough.

 **005, part two**  
Five minutes down the road, Salazar discovers that these zombies _do_ eat brains, and he names the rottweiler Crazy Fuck, and makes a mental note to pick up some dog treats at the supermarket.

 **005, part three**  
He nearly brains a man with his cricket bat before he sees the sword and the chocolate bar in his hands, and he figures zombies can’t be that clever yet. Crazy Fuck only seems to hate dead things, because just sniffs at the guy’s crotch.

“Come to get some food?” The man says. “I’ve been playing shops for the past couple of days. They broke into my flat, the fucks. Got intestines _every where_ and then I chopped their heads off. I don’t think blood was part of my interior decorator’s grand vision, you know?”

“No,” Salazar says. “Are there any salt and vinegar crisps?”

“I think so,” the guy says, nodding. “I’m Godric, by the way.”

“Salazar.” Crazy Fuck starts barking like he’s mental, and before Salazar can even think to gaga from the sudden overwhelming smell of rotting flesh, he’s being pushed to the ground and jumped over. He watches as Crazy Fuck and Godric tag team the zombies - Crazy Fuck chewing at their calves and Godric chopping their heads off with his fucking _sword_.

“Shit,” Godric says, when the floor is covered in blood, various other fluids Salazar doesn’t want to think about and a couple of spare heads. “I dropped my bloody Twix.”

 **006**  
Godric moves into the shelter. He brings three pillows, a duffel bag full of clothes, a radio that only works if you hit it on the X made of duct tape and a box full of porn. Salazar glances in it, just for a second, but it’s long enough to work out that Godric has a thing for women with very little concern for their vaginal walls.

Godric sellotapes his favourite pages to the ceiling above Salazar’s bed and Salazar takes them down every time until they run out of sellotape.

They spend their first night in the shelter-scowling at each other while Crazy Fuck gets sellotape stuck to his paws. They both wonder who’s going to snap first.  
 **012**  
Eventually, they settle. Most mornings, Godric disappears off outside into the world with his sword on his back and Crazy Fuck by his side. Salazar spends his days reading and trying to find a working station on the radio - anything to hint that there might be more people out there.

Most days, he’s given up by the time Godric gets back, clothes covered in blood and a slightly manic grin on his face.

“You’re disgusting,” Salazar says, trying studiously not to look as Godric strips off in the corner they’ve designated. Salazar had hung curtains, but Godric refuses to pull them. Salazar’s seen his arse far too many times to be comfortable with. “Go take a shower.”

“The shower is a hose behind the shelter, mate. You mean go take a hose. I’m not going to take a hose,” Godric says, standing for a moment, completely naked, hands on his hips and staring at Salazar like he’s crazy. “I’m fine.”

“You’re covered in blood and zombie shit,” Salazar mutters. He sniffs. “Probably literal shit.”

“I’m _fine_.” He puts his pants on at least - not that the tight black material hides much.

“Blood is a health hazard, Godric. What if they had HIV or something?” He might not have known Godric for long, but he knows enough to know that he’s probably got to be the logical part of this duo. He’s seen enough to know that Godric’s methods are to run head first into the fray and hope he remembered to grab his sword before he does. Salazar still doesn’t know why he’s got a sword.

“They’re fucking zombies, Sal,” Godric says. “HIV would be the least worrying thing they’ve got.”

Salazar concedes, but he does force Godric to march outside and rinse off his clothes _and_ the dog.

 **019**  
It takes two weeks for Salazar to realize he’s met Godric before - that this mad arsehole who chops the heads off of zombies with a bloody _sword_ is the same mad arsehole who once groped him after chugging a pint of the worst lager the pub had to offer in record time. He only realizes when he watches Godric chug a pint of the worst whiskey Salazar has ever tasted. He manages to distract Godric with page three of The Sun before he finds out if the groping is an ‘always’ thing.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Godric says, looking up from the breasts gracing the page in front of him.

“I know you,” Salazar says. Godric’s brow furrows, the corners of his mouth turn down and he cocks his head. For a moment, he vaguely resembles Crazy Fuck.

“I should hope so,” Godric says, folding the newspaper and tucking it beneath his pillow. “I live with you. We’re roomies. Shelteries. Whatever you want to call it.”

“No, before this. I knew you or - of you, or, actually, you shoved your hand down my trousers and quoted Moulin Rouge at me.” Salazar’s not blushing, he’s not. If he is, it’s because it’s kind of an awkward thing to say, especially when the person you’re talking to is looking at you like they have absolutely no clue what you’re talking about. “In a pub,” he adds.

The silence drags out. Salazar keeps looking at Godric, watching the minute changes on his face. The twitch in the corner of his lips, the arching of his eyebrows. Finally, Godric says something.

“That sounds like something I’d do,” Godric concedes. “What did I say? Did I sing to you? I apologize.”

“No, you just, you called me a big boy,” Salazar says. “While you had your hand on my cock.” There’s that silence again, but it breaks quicker this time, breaks with Godric’s bark of laughter and the clatter of metal against the floor as the bed shakes with the movement.

“Care to verify my deductions?” Godric says, with a leer on his face that reminds Salazar of his creepy cricket coach from sixth form.

“Not really,” Salazar replies, with a slight harrumph in his voice. “You read The Sun. I’m out of your league.”

“Shame,” Godric sighs. “I always was bit of a size queen.” He pulls out the newspaper from under his pillow, like what he just said was perfectly normal, and opens it up to page three again. “This woman has _great_ tits, Sal, you’re missing out here.”

“I’m perfectly fine,” Salazar says, and turns back to his own reading material - one with significantly less boobs. “Keep it down and clean up after yourself,” he adds, reaching for his headphones. He hears Godric’s scoff, and the sound of his zip being undone too, before he has time to press play, and that’s _more than enough_ , thank you.

He hopes the apocalypse ends before they run out of AA batteries, though.

 **030**  
“If you could choose one person to be alone in an empty world with, who would it be?” Godric asks, one miserable Thursday. Rain is hammering against the shelter, drumming out a rhythmic beat occasionally punctuated by rolls of thunder. The radio is gives off more static than usual and even Godric has to concede that the zombies won’t be strolling the streets today.

“Anyone but you,” Salazar says, without even needing to think about it. “Crazy Fuck would do.”

“That’s mean,” Godric says, leaning across the tiny space between their beds just to jab his elbow in Salazar’s thigh. He stays there, elbows on Salazar’s legs, far too close for anyone with an understanding of personal space.

“You don’t like to wear clothes, you get blood all over the place and you have a sword,” Salazar says. “What about that makes you someone worth living with forever?”

“I’m saving the world, Sal,” Godric replies, sitting up. His chest puffs up, his shoulders arched back just slightly, and all Salazar can think of is those nature documentaries, with the birds and their mating calls. “And clothes are itchy.”

“You could at least wear pants, Godric.” Salazar stands up, stretching out his back until he can feel the ceiling just inches above his head. Not for the first time, he’s jealous of Godric’s stature. “Not everyone wants to see your balls.”

“You love-”

“Don’t,” Salazar says, cutting off Godric because he knows exactly what he’s going to say. “I’m going to go walk Crazy Fuck.” Before he can go anywhere, Godric grabs his wrist and gets to his feet.

“Sal,” he says. He doesn’t finish the sentence.

“What-” This time, Salazar’s cut off. Not gracefully or politely or any normal ways of interrupting someone, he thinks, oh no, because this is Godric fucking Gryffindor, and he prefers to do things the wrong way. He, apparently, prefers to interrupt people by kissing them. His lips are chapped and his palm is rough against Salazar’s jaw. Salazar tries not to think about the blood he knows has dried beneath Godric’s nails, or the way there’s an iron tang to the inside of his mouth.

When he digs his fingers into Godric’s hair, tugging lightly against it, just a touch, Godric nips at his lips, a smile pressing against Salazar’s.

“Crazy Fuck doesn’t need a walk,” Godric says, lips barely away from Salazar’s. “But I could use some exercise.”

“Just for that,” Salazar says, pushing at Godric’s shoulders until they’re separate. “I’m going to go read, and you can think about what you’ve done.”

 **050**  
Salazar wakes up with Godric’s arms around him, and snoring in his ear. Crazy Fuck is at the end of the bed, spread out across their feet and Salazar genuinely can’t figure out how they’ve all fit onto the tiny little camp beds.

“Wake up,” he says, digging his fingers into the skin around Godric’s ribs. The snoring stops. “We’re leaving today.”

“Five more minutes,” Godric mumbles, and presses his face into the Salazar’s neck.

“No, we’re going, remember?” Salazar can feel Godric blinking against his neck, the flutter of eyelashes tracing his skin.

“Can’t say I do,” Godric says, propping himself up on his elbow and looking down at Salazar. “Where are we going?”

“I told you last night,” Salazar sighs, rubbing the base of his palm over his eyes. “Last night, Godric.”

“Before or after you sucked my dick?”

“Before.”

“I definitely don’t remember then,” Godric says, with one of his usual smarmy grins. “You looked hot last night.”

“It was important,” Salazar says, sitting up and swinging his legs to the floor. Godric takes the chance to cling to his back, to wrap his arms around Salazar’s waist and pepper kisses to his shoulder. “No, we’re not doing this. We’re getting up and I will tell you the plan again and then we’ll leave.”

“I won’t remember it,” Godric says, and Salazar can feel his grin against his shoulder. “It doesn’t have to take long, Sal.”

Salazar sighs. Bloody Godric Gryffindor.

 **050, part two**  
When they finally get out of bed, Godric’s finally ready to listen.

“We can’t stay in this shelter forever,” Salazar says, sitting as far away from Godric as possible. “It’s ridiculous. We’re going to run out of edible food eventually, even with supermarket runs. There’s got to be other people somewhere out there.”

“I haven’t seen anyone,” Godric points out as he buttons his jeans. “You don’t get out of here much but, really, there’s nobody that’s living out there.”

“Of course not,” Salazar says, like that’s obvious. It is, he thinks. Godric just doesn’t like to think in anything but the _here, now_. “This was always a small town. The infection spread easily. I had the bomb shelter, you had your sword, we stood a decent chance at living.”

“I like to think the zombies didn’t have the balls to take me on,” Godric says, grinning like a madman. “But you might be right.”

“I am right.” Salazar runs a hand through his hair. It’s getting long, too long, but frankly, he doesn’t trust Godric with a pair of scissors. “While you’ve been out chopping off heads-”

“Saving the world,” Godric says.

“Whatever, I’ve been working out some plans. There are a couple of places I think other survivors will be,” Salazar says, finally lifting the pile of paper from the tiny desk he’s spent most of his days at. “They’re mostly easily defensible towns close to major cities.” Godric hovers over his shoulder, squints at the maps and the reams of notes in Salazar’s cramped script.

“Sounds good to me,” Godric says. “Can I bring my porn?”

“...Yes, Godric, you can bring your porn.”

 **050, part three**  
Salazar had planned how to get them a car. It had been a good plan - he thought they’d survey the immediate area, find the most practical car, break into the house, find the keys and they’d be good to go.

Instead, he ends up climbing over garden fences with Godric, who’s carrying Crazy Fuck in a way that suggests they’ve done this before.

“Where are we going?” Salazar asks, when he catches his trousers on yet another fence. “This is not the plan.”

“I already hot wired a Land Rover,” Godric says, letting Crazy Fuck to the ground in the middle of one garden. “I had to ditch it about a week ago, but I don’t think zombies can drive. They can’t climb fences. It’s all kitted out too. I filled up some jerry cans and they’re all in the back.”

“You didn’t think to tell me?” Salazar says, trying not to sound annoyed or - or anything but disinterested. “That would have been useful knowledge.”

“I thought you were fit to stay in the shelter forever,” Godric says with a shrug as he pulls open the garden gate. Salazar watches as he looks around him, watches as Crazy Fuck sniffs at the air, and for a moment, focuses on the ridiculous situation. Godric and Crazy Fuck, a rottweiler and someone who’s father was probably a beserker, zombie fighting duo. “It was just in case. I didn’t want us to be stuck there, surrounded by things after our brains.”

“Us?” Salazar hears himself repeat it, and wishes he could take it back. Godric’s glancing back at him, over his shoulder, with an almost smile on our face.

“Yeah, us. You, me, Crazy Fuck.”

“Well, I’m glad you think about something other than your prick, some of the time,” Salazar says, pushing through the gate when Godric waves the all clear.

“Nah, mate,” Godric replies, swinging his arm over Salazar’s shoulders. “It’s all about my prick, if you think about it.”

 **064**  
It’s slow going. Godric doesn’t like to let Salazar drive, and there’s a few arguments about that until Godric points out that he’s not afraid to drive recklessly if it means saving their lives, and then there’s a few arguments about how close Godric gets to falling asleep at the wheel, and how that’s dangerous too.

They work out a compromise, eventually, but it means a lot of their time is spent finding places they can camp out while Godric sleeps, and a whole lot of time spent on watches.

“My entire face hurts,” Godric mumbles, face pressed against Salazar’s hip. He’s using Salazar’s thighs as a pillow, a bundle of blankets they’d stolen from an abandoned B&B covering him, keeping out the chill a bare minimum Land Rover lets in.

“You need to get more sleep,” Salazar says. “You’re running on like three hours and then staring at the road. You’re on edge all the time.”

“I need to drive is what I need to do,” Godric replies, but he doesn’t move. “We’ve got to get to Bristol sooner rather than later.”

“I can drive.” Godric doesn’t say anything. “It’s light outside, I’ll stick to open roads.”

“You’ll keep Crazy Fucker in the front with you?” Godric rolls away from Salazar, pulling pillows off of the bench and tucking them under his head. “And you’ll wake me up if anything happens?”

“Of course,” Salazar says, already whistling for the dog and climbing over the seats. “I’m not good with a sword.”

He doesn’t get a reply.

 **070**  
The engine’s barely stopped running before Godric’s jumping out of the car, duffle bag slung over his shoulder.

“We’re stopping here for a few days,” he says, pushing past Crazy Fucker, who’s bouncing around his feet. “I am sick of that fucking car. I am sick of driving, and, and having to sleep on the floor and smelling like petrol all the time and being _freezing_.”

“It’s a shame Bristol was a bust,” Salazar says, slamming the car door behind him. He watches as Godric kicks in the door someones house, and ignores the blood stains on the path running up to the door.

“How many more cities do we have to check out?” Godric’s laying on a sofa - floral, very fetching - when Salazar brings their stuff through.

“Nine,” Salazar replies, and tries not to laugh at how tortured Godric’s groan is.

“Shit, we should just carry on,” Godric says, turning his head to look up at Salazar. “Fuck, imagine if we lived in America.”

“You need to get some rest.” He looks, pointedly, at the cut on Godric’s cheek, only just beginning to scab over from the most recent altercation with zombies. “You’re no use to me dead.”

“I love you too, Sally,” Godric mutters. “I guess it’d be tough to stand around looking pretty if you had to get your hands dirty. You might mess up your hair.”

“Exactly right, Godric,” Salazar says, making a mental note to get back at him for ‘Sally’. “Get some bloody sleep. I’ll find us some food that doesn’t taste like cardboard.”

 **083**  
The downside to being the self appointed logistics half of the team is that Salazar has, both fortunately and unfortunately, never really seen Godric’s preferred method of zombie killing. There was the first time - and how was that only two and a bit months ago, because it feels like it’s been year - and a week or so ago, they took on a teenager with no jaw and a smell that made Salazar gag. Godric had been pretty calm about that one though, he’d let Crazy Fuck take care of it, mostly.

The first time Salazar _really_ sees Godric take on a zombie, he’s forced to try and work out how exactly Godric is still alive.

He’s in the car, hands tight on the steering wheel, ready to mow down any bastards that need mowing down. Godric’s to the left of the car, hollering and hooting with Crazy Fuck by his side, swinging his sword at the veritable _hoarde_ of zombies coming at him. He’s surrounded, almost - zombies coming at him from all sides and Salazar can already see it, Godric with his back pressed to the side of the car, zombies chewing on his flesh and, oh God, Salazar gags, his stomach convulsing.

He forces himself not to shut his eyes.

“Fuckers!” He hears Godric yell, and the cackle of laughter that comes after it. “Dude, Sal, this ones a priest! There’s a zombie priest out here! How cool is that?”

“Awesome,” Salazar mutters. There’s a final yell from Godric, a squelch, and then silence. He doesn’t want to look. He doesn’t want to stick his head out of the window and see zombies eating Godric.

“I just killed a priest, Sal,” he hears, and breaths a long, long sigh of relief. “Do you think I’m going to hell?”

“I think we’re already there,” Salazar says, throwing a towel over the back of the seat as he hears the back doors open. He hears the thud of Crazy Fuck jumping in, and then he turns around. Godric is _covered_ in blood, it’s all over his face, all over his clothes, everywhere. He looks like a warrior, or, a barbarian, or something from a horror film. “You’re a fucking twat, Godric,” Salazar says, with a sigh. “Is that your usual method of zombie killing?”

“Pretty much,” Godric says, with a nod. “Are you going to bitch about how I don’t do plans?” Salazar sighs, and pointedly ignores the way Godric hops into the front, completely naked. “You can drive, mate,” he says. “Onwards.”

 **101**.  
It’s exactly one hundred and one days since the apocalypse started. It’s exactly ninety five days since he met Godric in the supermarket. Ninety five days where the only human contact has been Godric, and he can see _people_ , actual living people who don’t want to eat their brains and probably don’t have a porn collection they value more than their life.

“We made it,” Salazar says, staring as the people become clearer - two women and a man, all armed with what looks like machine guns. No swords in sight. “We actually fucking made it.”

“Of course we did, Sal,” Godric says, glancing over at him, grin on his face. “We’re awesome. Of course we made it.”

“Let me do the talking,” Salazar says, and ignores Godric’s scoff. Godric’s already got his window down, though, and by the time they reach people, he’s practically got his head hanging out of it, like Crazy Fuck likes to do.

“Any room in the inn?”


End file.
